


A Weakness for Beautiful Things

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Challenge Response, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a badass Immortal come hunting.  Joe Dawson is, perhaps, all that stands between the hunter and hunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Weakness for Beautiful Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bar Challenge.
> 
> The title is from a quote by Joe Dawson from the series.

The lights from the stage backlit the hazy smoke that hung in the air like a gauzy curtain through which a man might watch a silhouetted striptease--he knew what was happening in the room behind, but it was more shadow than light and his mind had to fill in the blanks while it also filled him in other, more carnal ways--and Joe Dawson, joint proprietor, was just as used to the opacity as any man and still he could not push back the cover of unfocused dimness. He opted, instead, for conversation. If sight failed, try another sense.

"You're gonna have to give me more to go on," he said, shaking his head. He'd have liked to have gone to the back office, but the office was already in use with an officer of the law interviewing a woman who'd seen a man put something surreptitiously into her drink. The crushing sounds of the music smothered them enough that any cone of silence would have hung its head in shame, in any case, so they stayed out at the bar.

Duncan MacLeod had to lean forward, over the oak grain of the now sticky bar to shout practically in his ear, his mouth brushing against Joe's like a lover's, except that no whispers of sweetness were forthcoming. "Not here," he shouted.

Joe flicked his hand at the bartender he did have. "Mr. MacLeod here is covering the drinks while I'm gone."

MacLeod raised his eyebrows and a line of muscle in his neck jumped, but he nodded and hastily threw down a wad of bills.

Joe nodded, appeased. Damned Immortals with their constant problems, no mortals should have to bear the brunt of weights meant for other shoulders, but he struggled as best he could. At least MacLeod could cover these smaller irritations.

They headed for the alley, which smelled of stale beer and too ripe garbage that spilled out of the dumpster. The bare bulb over the rear exit door caused the broken glass on the ground to glitter like a thousand stars.

"Yes?" he asked after a survey of the graffiti-scrawled walls and dark corners, making sure they were alone. The music pounded behind them against the door, begging to be released--the bar was too damn small for it, too damn confined, it'd be a fine thing to pulse out to the street, ensnaring passersby.

MacLeod didn't look like heard it, but it was no surprise to Joe--MacLeod enjoyed music like he enjoyed a cordial, because it was there and lovely, not because it strained against his skin from the inside, made his fingers itch, to get free. What MacLeod did look like was a combination of pissed, worried, and ready to shake Joe until his teeth rattled out to get what information he wanted.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"By he, you mean Adam." Joe considered. "I told you inside I needed more to go on. Give me a good reason." He'd be damned if he was going to reveal Methos' location without a perfectly good explanation. Not even to the virtuous MacLeod. The body count was usually too high. But he'd have also refused to tell where MacLeod was hiding--not that he ever usually tried to hide--if it'd come to that, were anyone to come looking for a hiding MacLeod. Each one of them needed protecting, and Joe stood his watch at the gate because if he didn't, then no one else would.

"Merciel," was all MacLeod said.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Joe gave him the address. He'd give MacLeod the moon, sun, and stars if he'd needed it. A good reason was a good reason. "Where? When?"

"An hour ago. He…dropped by. Looking."

"You’d better get going then."

MacLeod nodded and moved off, somehow managing to avoid making the usual crunching and crackling noises that an alley offered to anything larger than a rat.

Joe watched him go, black silk slithering off a table edge to pool on the floor, vanishing into the night. He pulled out his cell phone and called Methos to warn him. Then he went back inside, where the music gleefully reclaimed its lost victim.

He didn't see either of them again until the next night, before the crowd came in.

Methos arrived, drawn and haggard, and Joe wondered where the youth had gone that he'd seen only a few years ago. Now Methos' age seemed etched in the lines of his face and hands, as if it were a separate entity pressing outward, trying to escape its now unneeded façade. Joe imagined the outside shell of Methos crumpled to the floor like a discarded costume, and something else stepping towards him, hand outstretched and as deep as a well. He blinked and the image was gone, Methos standing quietly in front of him, the old oak bar a barrier between them.

"Joe?"

"What kin I git ya, stranger?" he asked, his mimicry not quite as good as he'd hoped for, the last word caught at the end.

Methos smiled anyway. "I was hoping to read the Merciel file."

Joe nodded, Watcher oath shredded as easily one might shuck a corn husk, and they went to the back. He'd already printed it out last night, what little there was of the spare file, and he'd read every word of it twice. He knew what Methos was reading. Merciel was not the biggest badass out there. In fact, Joe would've given worse odds when Koren and the Horsemen debacle came to town. But those others were all known, and in knowing them there was always hope to deal with them; Merciel was a complete unknown.

No one knew his origin, his age, his true name. He was good--frighteningly good. He'd cut down well-trained, old, experienced Immortals--cut them down as if he were just doing a chore, mowing the too lush, too high grass of his lawn. The Watchers didn't keep anyone on him because it was too dangerous. He made them all. It was highly suspected that Merciel had some kind of power or ability--something akin to Cassandra' Voice. There was one questionable report of Merciel talking another Immortal into a calm kneeling position of sacrifice with not even one blow having passed between them--Joe put that one down to a highly imaginative young field operative, filling in the gaps of what she might have missed. Eyewitnesses could be so unreliable. Merciel had never taken a student, nor a lover. He traveled by foot only, though he'd been seen on other continents so he'd had to take a boat or a plane, but no one had ever seen it.

Joe watched Methos read the reports, could see the printed words reflected on the surface of his eyes, his fingers flipping the edges of paper, and when he blinked and looked up, all concentration broken to pieces, Joe knew another Immortal had entered the building. Methos dropped the file and strode away, his coat fluttering behind his lengthy strides, and in the whirlwind a few piece of paper escaped to the floor with the insouciance of inanimate objects acting in a way designed only to irritate the living. It was going to be a pain in the ass to pick them up. Joe would do it later, right now he had his hands full with his cane, and the .38 in his pocket.

MacLeod appeared in the doorway, eyes blazing with the dark fire of a man tasked to keep his friends safe, his world safe, everyone safe. Joe knew the feeling.

"Hell, Joe."

Joe shrugged and took his hand off the trigger. "Merciel?"

"No sign of him. It's like he never was," MacLeod said as he passed. "Methos?"

"That way."

MacLeod left and Joe wondered who would fight eventually--each one desperate to fight their own battles, and those of the ones they loved--and if he would be bereft of one more friend, or not. He sighed, and shivered, wishing he could ward off the pressing feeling of coldness on his skin, in the back of his head. He'd never been psychic, or even superstitious, but he felt strange all over. He didn't like it. Laboriously, he picked up the nearest loose pages and when he stood up again, a man was there, watching him intently.

Joe resisted the urge to look in the direction that Methos and MacLeod had gone. Surely they were out of range by now? Let them be, let them be, he prayed. Let them be arguing far, far away. He put the pages down on top of the file and put his hand in his jacket, touched cool metal. Right now, today, was his chance. He knew who would fight the battle.

"Hello, Watcher," the man said. He was just as tall as MacLeod, strong without the bulk, with large hands that held his sword lightly and a surprisingly kind face. His eyes were a pale brown, like cream diluted with a few drops of espresso, and his short hair was only a few shades darker. He stared at Joe unblinkingly.

"They're not here."

"I know. I waited until they left."

"Killing me won't help you fight them." His finger found the trigger. Merciel laughed and Joe could see his even, straight teeth. "I do not want you dead, Watcher," he finally said. "I wanted to meet you."

Joe frowned, but things were clicking into place. "You spooked MacLeod."

Merciel nodded. "Yes. He came straight to you, like a rabbit to his warren. He still has much to understand. Finding mortals is more difficult, we have no bells tolling in our heads for you."

"What do you want, then?" He might as well cut to the chase.

Merciel ignored the question, instead he rifled through the pages of the report, reaching out one long arm to scatter-spread the sheets. "You try to help them." He studied one page. "In your way. Knowledge, power. You keep them as safe as you are able."

Joe nodded. "They're my friends."

Merciel came even closer, his long fingers twisting out a photo--one of the very few--of himself. "You find them worth helping. Keeping alive. They are precious to you." He looked directly at Joe. "Beautiful."

"Yes," Joe whispered. "I want them to live."

Merciel smiled, shark-tooth sharp. "As do I." The smile was swallowed down. "You are older than I thought. And infirm."

"I've still got a lot of years ahead of me," Joe countered, and could not squash the indignation.

"Of course."

They stood there for a long moment, Merciel fingering the pages of the report with feigned interest. Joe felt the coldness slick down his skin, but the trigger felt warm against his finger. It took actual concentration to find enough air to speak, and when he did, the words sounded as if they were spoken far away. "You're not here for them. What do you want?"

The spiked smile flashed again. "Just checking in, I suppose you could say." He suddenly looked as if he were staring far away, and Joe wondered where this man might have been born. His bland accent gave no true hint. "Things are happening. The Gathering is not long off. I thought perhaps I was ready, now might be the time, but I see another Guardian still in place. So I have work to do still." He looked down again at his photograph. "I am glad to have met you, met another touched by the future."

"I don't know what you mean."

Merciel considered him, lips pressed together, head tilted slightly. "Perhaps not. Perhaps you are touched by the past. Otherwise you would not stand there, your mortality thumping in your throat and only one gun with two bullets in your pocket. Standing there between I and the precious, beautiful things."

Joe held back his reaction, focused on glaring at the Immortal in front of him. The man could not know of his gun, a combination of special spare part purchases that Joe had designed himself. The thing was purposefully small: a trigger and two barrels, two bullets in two chambers, smaller and lighter than a box of matches, hidden in his pocket and unnoticed. "Fine," he said instead of so many other things. "Just know I will use it."

"And my own sword on my neck," Merciel finished the unspoken thought for him and Joe wondered how far he had fallen, to think about wasting a Quickening and all of the incumbent Quickenings contained there-in, the worst fate an Immortal could imagine--and would MacLeod or Methos forgive him, if ever he did this unforgivable thing?

"But you are willing to do it," Merciel said as if his thoughts were tissue paper in a gift box, shoved easily aside to the real present beneath.

Joe resolved his expression into something blank, trying not to give anything else away. "Yes." Joe knew it to be the truth. MacLeod and Methos could hate him, but he'd be dead eventually and they'd go on and ends and means were too jumbled to untangle them and find the beginnings of the threads.

"We will not meet again, Watcher. I will return when you are dust."

Joe gripped the gun, suddenly flush with fear. Come for them, kill them after he was dead? Not on his watch. His finger tightened.

"Not to harm," Merciel whispered as he moved away. "To safeguard."

"Why?" Joe released the pressure on the trigger.

Merciel was almost to the door. "In the end, Watcher--"

A few pages escaped to the floor as he moved through the room.

"--there can be only One," Joe continued from memory.

Merciel turned, holding the door open, allowing the wind in, and all the papers took flight around the room, became a sudden flurry of whiteness and snapping, paper flapping like a hundred seagull wings. "--we shall see who is left," Merciel finished the statement, but was already gone, his words left behind him to linger.

Joe sank into his desk chair and stared at the room littered with papers everywhere.


End file.
